Walk Through That Door
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Metamorphosis missing scenes and tag: It's time to stop walking away, for both of them.


**Walk Through That Door**  
K Hanna Korossy

He hesitated at the door. For the first in a long time, it felt wrong.

Going out demon-hunting with Ruby was supposed to be about saving people, doing good. Turning his curse into something positive. So why was he sneaking around in the dark, waiting until Dean was asleep? And why did it feel like he was abandoning his brother, not just leaving for a couple of hours?

Dean slept on, oblivious to Sam's vacillation.

He'd been back nearly two weeks now, and while Sam was convinced he didn't remember Hell, Dean was still…different. A little more brash on the surface, a lot more thoughtful underneath. What Sam was not convinced about was that the memories weren't lurking somewhere in the back of Dean's mind, eating at him without his realizing it. Bleeding out in the frequent nightmares they were both pretending Dean didn't have. Chasing him while he was awake, until Dean more or less dropped from exhaustion wherever he was. He rarely actually went to bed anymore; that evening he'd fallen asleep during the movie he'd picked out and cajoled Sam into watching. Dean was struggling to settle back into life.

They both were.

Sam had tossed a blanket over Dean after his brother fell asleep, but the elder Winchester still seemed vulnerable. Dean was in the bed closest to the door once again, but he had his back to the entrance, hadn't gotten as far as tucking his knife under the pillow. And he slept deeply, not even waking to Sam's preparations. He was defenseless like this, and Sam's need to protect him was foreign and fierce. Dean had always been the protector.

But then Dean had gone and died.

Sam set his jaw. What he was doing was a form of protection, too. One less demon made the world a safer place, got rid of one more of those who'd taken Dean from him, who'd maybe tortured Dean down below. Dean would get that, really. Sam swore he would tell him about it soon.

Ruby was waiting right now, though, and there was work to be done.

Sam slipped out the door without saying goodbye. Just as Dean hadn't let him do back in May.

00000

He yanked the door open and stalked out, feeling Sam's teary gaze follow his every step.

He only made it as far as the car.

Dean stopped, taking a breath, then leaned forward, palms flat against his baby's polished hood. The one bit of familiarity, a dependably stable touchstone in the midst of a sea of change, grounded him a little, let him think.

Of course, he wasn't sure he wanted to think.

Sam had lied to him. No, not just lied to him: had passionately insisted he wasn't using his powers in order to keep Dean's dying wish. It was a cruel deception that had cut to the bone when Dean had witnessed its betrayal.

And there came the worst part. Not only had Sam lied to him, but in doing so, he'd embraced what Dean most feared. He was using his powers, arguing for their rightness, so sure he knew what he was doing. Creeping willingly closer to what their dad had warned Dean about.

He swallowed, eyes burning, hands curling into fists against sun-warmed metal. The knuckles of his right hand stung from where he'd hit Sam, twice. Shame filled him at the thought…but he'd sacrificed everything—_everything_—to save Sam. He had nothing left to give to also save Sam from himself.

Dean turned his head to the side, staring blindly at the empty parking lot. He'd said some hard things inside, seen the words batter Sam, and felt his brother's pain reverberate in his own chest. But, man, he had to reach Sam somehow. Had to make him understand he was playing with fire.

Had to be mad so he himself wouldn't break under the despair.

Sometimes he wished he didn't love his brother so much. The powerlessness wouldn't hurt so badly if there wasn't love. Dean could just walk away as they had with Lenore, leave some other hunter to sort out the shades of grey.

But he did love the kid. Had done so since the moment he'd found out about Sam, months before his little brother ever made his entrance into the world. And while that sucked…it also wasn't changing anytime soon, no matter what Sam did. Deep down, Dean didn't really want it to.

The threat to walk out had been a total bluff. Dean was still royally ticked off and about ten kinds of terrified, but he'd keep trying. There had never really been another option.

Dean tipped his gaze back over his shoulder to the figure hovering uncertainly in the doorway. "You coming?" he snapped.

"I didn't…" Then from the corner of his eye, Dean saw him disappear into the room, followed by sounds of hasty packing.

If Sam was afraid, too…Dean had to believe it wasn't too late.

He just didn't know when his job had shifted from making his brother feel safe, to trying to scare him.

00000

"Where are you going?"

Dean's question pulled him up short. Was it his imagination, or was there a trace of suspicion in his brother's question? Sam shrugged it off, literally. "Just gonna look some stuff up," he said casually as he pulled his jacket on.

"Yeah, well, don't take too long." Dean tossed his balled-up napkin aside and shoved the empty Styrofoam remnants of his lunch away. "Travis's gonna be here in an hour for flamethrower arts-and-crafts." For a moment, the look on his older brother's face was pure glee, and Sam couldn't help but smile.

"I won't," he promised, and stepped through the door.

He'd been telling the truth; he wasn't sure about this rugaru thing and had some research of his own to do. But even more so, he needed to get out of that room a little and breathe.

The library was only a few blocks away, and Sam walked the distance with hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. It was a nice fall day, but he couldn't help feel a chill crawling up and down his back.

_If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you._

Sam's pace picked up, hands clenching and releasing in his pockets, teeth worrying his lip. It was still tender from where Dean had hit him, twice, hard. The cool breeze stung water out of his eyes.

_Slippery slope, brother…darker and darker…_

His nose was running, and Sam swiped at it impatiently, then at his eyes, and picked up his pace.

_Cas said that if I don't stop you, he will… _God_ doesn't want you doing this. _

He couldn't feel his legs, and Sam inanely looked down to make sure they were still there, moving him forward with long strides. He felt like he was drifting, though, unanchored and cut off at the knees. In one day, the only two allies he'd ever trusted implicitly and relied on always being there—Dean and God—had both turned their backs on him. Aside from Ruby's dubious help, that left Sam totally alone.

No source of comfort. No solace in the memories of his brother's love. Not even prayer.

Just when he thought he couldn't feel anything worse than Dean's death…

Sam sniffed. It was stupid: Dean was alive, and God hadn't gone anywhere. Dean's words had been knives, hurting worse than his fists, but he'd been trying to get a reaction from Sam. They were exaggerated, and didn't change anything.

Didn't stop it from feeling like his heart had been flayed open, though.

Dean hadn't even asked him what the summer had been like. Not really, not beyond the expected teasing about Sam having a room to himself to bring girls back to and about the friggin' iPod in the car. Dean had no idea, none, about how terribly painful and lonely it had felt, how lost Sam had been. What he'd had to do to survive.

_Ruby tricked you into using your powers_—if only Dean knew.

The library was in sight down the block. Sam wasn't even positive what he was looking for, except maybe some hope. For Jack, and for himself. That they weren't evil, doomed, alone.

He would prove it to Dean. He would.

00000

He stopped just inside the door. "You gonna be okay for a minute?"

"Yeah." Sam probably didn't dare nod. His pose was at odds with his affirmation as he sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, holding on to the mattress as if he feared falling off. Which he probably did. Dean's injury might've been more bloody, but he hadn't realized just how much worse off Sam was until his brother had bent and vomited wholeheartedly into the planter by the door. Dean was kinda hoping they'd be gone by the time management noticed that one.

"I'll be right back, Sam," Dean said with gravity. He wanted Sam to hear him, and to have no more doubt on this point.

Sam's head rose a little, his messy hair and bruised face so much the little brother Dean remembered that it made his throat swell. Sam did nod a tiny bit then, even though it tightened the lines around his eyes. "Okay," he said softly.

Dean nodded back and hurried out into the night.

Damn Jack Montgomery and his inner cannibal, anyway. And that stupid SOB Travis for jumping the gun and forcing everybody's hand. Or…whatever.

Dean yanked the Impala's trunk open and grabbed the first aid kit. The armory still wasn't arranged to his liking, the way he remembered it, but some things hadn't shifted. The important things.

He'd forgotten that for a little while.

The lies, Sam's arguments that he was doing something good, Dean's terror that he wasn't—none of it should have mattered. He'd known Sam for a quarter of a century now. Dean should've seen how scared his brother was under all the justifications and bravado.

Kit in hand, Dean headed back for the room, blinking as he stepped from darkness into warm light.

Sam had apparently given up on being vertical and was lying on his side where he'd been sitting, legs still hanging off. He was squinting at the door, and Dean couldn't help notice the breath he took when Dean walked in.

Yeah. Some monster.

Dean kicked the door shut as he grabbed a chair with his free hand and towed it in between the two beds, scooping Sam's legs up onto the bed as he went. It was a tight fit, but he jammed the chair in and sat down, dropping the kit within hand's reach on his bed. He dug out the bottle of heavy-duty painkillers and shook out several, then grabbed a water bottle from the nightstand.

Sam took the pills without protest, and watched as Dean threw back a couple, too, finishing the rest of the water. He chucked the bottle toward the trashcan and turned back to the kit.

"You first," Sam murmured.

Dean almost reached up to touch what would doubtless be an impressive bruise by morning. It was crusty with dried blood but would keep. "Dude, I'm not the one who can't walk a straight line," he said dryly. They'd staggered to the car together after torching the Montgomery house, and the little conversation on the way back had distracted Dean, but between the barfing and the way Sam leaned on the walls and furniture just to get to the bed, yeah, he was thinking Sam had gotten a few more knocks to the head than he had.

Sam acquiesced at that, eyes sliding shut as Dean started gently cleaning the blood and bruises.

His little brother had saved him that night, by killing someone he'd fought so hard to let live. Someone he'd seen himself in, but more than that: a person, which had been enough for Sam. He'd become the conscience of their team once more, apparently having given up on his intent to become more "like Dean."

That was good, really. Dean had missed his angsty Jiminy Cricket.

But it also cast some things into a new light. Like Sam's argument about his method of exorcising not killing the host like the knife did. Or the suspicion Dean had that Ruby hadn't tricked Sam into anything, that his brother had embraced his abilities as one more desperate attempt to save Dean. Or the realization that had dawned on Dean at the edge of the road and of Sam's tears—when Sam had stopped defending his abilities and started striking out against them—that Sam was just trying to make the best of a bad situation and felt as helpless as Dean did.

He hadn't asked Sam about the last five months, too uncomfortable with his brother's grief and pain—not to mention his own guilt—to go there. But sooner or later he'd have to, for Sam's sake. It was clearly eating at the guy, and Dean wasn't losing him again, not even to Sam himself.

"Don't think you need stitches, but you're gonna have a new scar." He pressed the butterfly bandage down with one finger in Sam's hairline. "Not that anybody's gonna see it under all that hair…"

Sam's mouth quirked. He didn't open his eyes as he asked, "What 'bout you, man, you startin' a new collection?"

"Me? Naw, I'm too pretty to scar," Dean scoffed, although he was grateful the painkillers were starting to kick in because it felt like someone was using a pickax on his forehead, from the inside.

Sam snorted his opinion of that, then sighed, settling more heavily into the bed.

"I'll get you some ice," Dean said, pushing himself to his feet and pausing a moment to let the room stop moving around him. "Both of us some ice," he amended.

Sam didn't stir, not sleeping yet but utterly exhausted. Dean resisted the urge to reach over and shove the hair out of his bruised face, but he did lean past Sam to pull the blankets he was lying on up and over him, then moved down to pull his boots off.

He watched Sam's long fingers flex on the pillow, and finally cleared his throat. "You know you can tell me what happened while I was gone, right? I won't get mad again, I promise."

Sam's mouth tugged higher. "Yeah, you will."

"Okay, yeah," Dean shrugged, "I probably will. But I'm not gonna leave."

Sam cracked his eyes, staring down the length of the bed at Dean, even if Dean had an idea Sam saw at least two of him. His brother finally inhaled. "I'll show you something tomorrow."

Dean's eyebrow rose. "Show me, like…_show_ me?" He held up a hand, wiggling his fingers in mock magical demon-expulsion.

He could swear that, even with a concussion and wonky vision, Sam still rolled his eyes. "Go get ice, Dean."

"Yeah. Good idea." He hesitated again. "Your jaw need some, too?" he asked quietly.

Sam's eyes weren't dodging his, and there was no reproach in them. "I'm okay," he whispered back.

Right. Sure, they were both awesome. Still, Dean could breathe a little bit easier for the unspoken absolution. He stepped toward the door, looking back one more time at Sam.

His brother's eyes were shut, fingers and face relaxed against the bedding.

Dean smiled a little, and went out the door.

00000

He made it all the way to the door before Dean's sleep-heavy voice muttered from the other bed, "Where're you goin'?"

Both the fact Dean was actually in bed and that he woke up to Sam's movements were good signs in Sam's opinion, and he smiled fondly even as he clung to the doorframe. "Need something from the car. Go back to sleep, man."

But Dean was already rolling out and up, wincing a moment as he touched the square of gauze on his temple. "There's nothing to hang on to between the door and the car, Sam. You stay—I'll get it. What do you need?"

"I can't—" Sam shook his head in frustration, hissing softly when it sent his brain and vision sloshing. "I'd need to show you."

Dean looked at him speculatively a moment, then nodded. "Okay," was all he said. He reached for his car keys on the small table by the door and snagged Sam's jacket at the same time. Sam couldn't even remember when it'd come off. "C'mon." Dean dropped the jacket over his shoulders and then took his arm, gentle but secure.

They shuffled out the door like old men, into the chilly early morning. Sam had no idea what the date was anymore, but since Dean had come back and he wasn't counting days they had left or that Dean was in Hell, it didn't seem to matter much. He leaned against his brother as the scenery and ground shifted around him, and determinedly kept moving.

"Trunk or interior?" Dean asked.

"Trunk," Sam grunted. He leaned against the Impala's wide body as Dean opened the rear of the car. The gravel bit into his socked feet, but Sam didn't care, just kept his eyes on his prize. As soon as the lid was up, he pushed forward, propping himself against the car, and dug down in the right corner. A few seconds later, he triumphantly pulled out a brown paper sack.

Dean eyed it skeptically, clearly wondering if this had been worth the trip, but didn't say anything, just unhooked and moved Sam's fingers out of harm's way, slammed the lid down, and took his brother's arm again.

By the time they made it back through the door, Sam was ready to crawl under the covers again and sleep through the day. Dean read his mind, leading him straight to his bed. But Sam just sat down and stared at the bag in his hand.

Dean hesitated a moment, then sank onto the bed across from him. "That what you wanted to show me?" He nodded gingerly toward Sam's prize.

Sam nodded, winced, and unfolded the top of the bag with shaky hands. Once it was open, he turned it over and dumped the contents onto the bed beside him.

Dean stared a moment at the pile of fluttering paper. Then, with a frown, he moved over to Sam's mattress, the bag's contents between them. "Right. You had to stagger outside at six in the morning to get the trash."

"It's not trash," Sam said quietly, and plucked the topmost piece of paper from the heap. It was hard to read, his vision fuzzy and doubling, but he squinted at it a moment, then offered it to Dean. "I stayed at this place in Pennsylvania when I heard Lilith had been seen in Scranton." When Dean took the receipt, Sam picked up the next item, a napkin. "This is from the bar in Omaha I stopped at after I couldn't find anything in an occult collection a friend of Bobby's had there."

The napkin also accepted in silence, Sam went on: bars, motels, diners, gas stations. Some places he couldn't remember. Others were too clear. But it was all there, and he was going to share every step with Dean.

A small pile had accumulated in Dean's palm when his other hand closed around Sam's wrist even as he dug down for the next item. "Sammy…"

Sam blinked hard as the white suddenly blurred in front of his eyes. Nobody had called him that in so long, and certainly not with that kind of love. He swallowed. "I wasn't…I wasn't doing it on purpose at first." His eyes darted up with a small, bitter smile, just enough to see that Dean was staring at him, then fell back to the sad remains of endless, lonely weeks of misery. "Wasn't really doing anything on purpose at first, just stuck the receipts and maps and stuff in my pocket or threw 'em in the backseat. But after a while…" He shrugged his shoulder. "I don't know, guess it was like…keeping a record or something. How I spent my summer vacation." Sam huffed a laugh. "Figured you'd want to know what I'd been up to when you came back." He clamped down on the last word as it wobbled. He'd wanted to show Dean he was all right, that he'd stayed strong. That Dean didn't have to worry about him.

Bang-up job he was doing of that. Instead of projecting strength and certainty, he was sitting there trembling like a virgin, with only a pathetic pile of, well, trash, to show for the months Dean had been gone. That, and an ability Sam hadn't wanted in the first place. No wonder Dean looked at him like he was a freak.

He startled as a hand unexpectedly slid under his hair, curling around the nape of his neck. Kneading his muscles in silence for a minute, then just resting there.

"You're not alone anymore, Sam."

Dean sounded rough, like his emotions were close to the surface, too, and Sam looked up in confusion. But there was no condemnation in his brother's face, none of the earlier acrimony or mistrust. Just compassion, and a tentative acceptance. Apology and promise Dean-style.

Sam stared at him a moment, then offered a wobbly smile. _Chick moment much? _

Dean grinned wryly back, hand squeezing lightly again. _No idea what you're talking about. _Then he stood, gathering the bits of Sam's trail of tears back into the bag before heading for the door. He opened it, tossed the bag out, then slammed the door shut on the past.

Yeah. Sam could live with that.

**The End**


End file.
